


A Perfectly Human Monster

by Philomytha



Category: Endeavour (TV), Rivers of London - Ben Aaronovitch
Genre: Case Fic, Crossover, Episode Related, Gen, Magic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-15
Updated: 2013-12-15
Packaged: 2018-01-04 13:42:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,144
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1081691
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Philomytha/pseuds/Philomytha
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The 'opera phantom' killer is aiming for a bigger target than Morse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Perfectly Human Monster

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Cedara](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cedara/gifts).



The entire CID unit could hear Bright and Thursday in the office, though most of the men were trying to pretend they weren't listening. Morse, scorning this display of pointless tact, leaned on the wall adjacent to the door and concentrated on the voices carrying through.

"...got him bang to rights now. I don't want this _weasel_ from London slinking through my case and making it all disappear in a puff of smoke." It seemed an unusual degree of emphasis for Thursday. 

Bright sounded a bit rattled too. "I understand your concerns," he said, "but this request comes from Division, or even higher up. It's policy for the whole country now: any of these kind of unusual multiple killings with the kind of derangement Cronyn--Gull, that is--has shown are to be investigated by the special unit." Bright's voice seemed to hold the phrase 'special unit' at arm's reach, like a matron carrying a dead rat by its tail with a pair of tongs. 

"I know the unit you mean. I've worked with them before back when I was in London, and during the war too. I've no wish to encounter them again." 

"That's as may be, Inspector, but we must follow the procedures. He'll come up on the train tomorrow, and he'll be in and out within an hour. You needn't even deal with him yourself; that constable of yours can take him to inspect Gull." The scraping sound of a chair being pulled back, and the soft thud of Bright sitting down. "Thank you, Inspector, that will be all." 

Morse saw no point in leaping aside as the door opened. Thursday would know he'd been listening. But Thursday didn't even glance at him, just marched stiffly out.

"Wonder who it is they're making all that fuss about?" Strange asked. He always asked the questions everyone was thinking, Morse had noticed, even when it made him look like a fool. It wasn't a bad trait in a detective. 

"Some ponce from London," said Jakes. "Specialist in something. They're getting this unit to check out all the freaky murders." 

And Jakes, Morse reflected, said nothing that wasn't already apparent from the conversation whilst trying to make it sound as though he had extra knowledge. 

"What unit?" he asked. 

Jakes shrugged. "Some forensic thing or other, I think. Scientific. What are you doing standing around, anyway? Go down to the cells and get a copy of Gull's booking-in report. I need all this typed up by four o'clock." 

Jakes liked to hide his ignorance by issuing pointless directions. Morse saw no value in arguing, so he headed in the direction of the cells. Thursday's office door was shut. No possibility of casually dropping in to ask what this was about. 

Mason Gull, aka Daniel Cronyn, aka Keith Miller, aka I'm The Killer, had the most secure cell in the middle of the row, and the two adjoining cells stood empty. There was no real need to go that way, but Morse took himself past it anyway. He hummed the finale from _Otello_ as he went, just for the sake of it, but Gull was standing in the back of the cell, in the far left corner, muttering to himself with his hands outstretched. Morse didn't pause in his stride, but he did turn his head to keep looking in as he went. 

Sergeant Polliweather was in charge of the cells and had been every day since the end of the war, as far as Morse could tell. Not terribly bright, but all he had to do was keep the right doors locked and he seemed to manage that without trouble. Morse nodded to him as he looked in at his cubbyhole-cum-office. 

"I need the booking-in papers for Mason Gull," he said, and then added, "please." 

Polliweather nodded, put down his mug of tea and began to rummage through his files. "This for your London fellow who's coming up?" he asked.

"When did you hear about that?" Morse asked, startled.

"Bright was down here this morning. And they had him come up to check someone out at Banbury last year, my mate works there. Waste of time, but all these new rules, you know. They'd never have bothered with any of this during the war." He found the file and passed it to Morse. "There you go."

"Have you had any trouble with Gull?" Morse asked. 

"He's an odd fish." Polliweather took another sip of his tea and looked up at Morse. "I mean, even for a freak killer he's odd. Every time I look in, he's standing in the corner talking to himself. Not even English, foreign bollocks. All day he's been at it." 

Morse thought back to what he'd observed. What he'd heard. The _foreign bollocks_ was Latin. Strange.

He took the papers back upstairs, delivered them to Jakes and saw that the door of Thursday's office was now ajar. Morse collected his packed lunch and went in quietly. 

Thursday nodded to him and began the 'I wonder what I have today' ritual with his sandwiches. Morse kept quiet even though he knew it was cheese and pickle, and waited until Thursday had eaten one of the sandwiches before asking, "Who is this fellow coming up, this Londoner?"

Thursday took another bite of his sandwich before replying. "Never you mind. There's some things even you don't want to know, lad."

"He's not going to mess up the case, is he? We have all the evidence we need for trial."

"He'd better not."

"Do you know him? From London?" Morse tried again after Thursday had finished half the sandwich. 

"I know his type. Look, Morse. We keep the peace. We catch crooks and killers and send them up the steps. But we don't deal out justice ourselves, and we follow the law. Fellows like this ignore the rules. Suspects disappear and officers get hurt. And during the war--well. Don't have anything more to do with his type than you can help. And that's all I have to say on the subject, so let it go."

* * *

Morse watched the passengers disembarking from the 11.46 from Paddington. He had no idea what this DCI Nightingale looked like, but he thought he might be able to spot a copper. There was something distinctive about the way a policeman moved in a crowd. Young women with small children struggled to attract the guard's attention for assistance, while briefcase-wielding businessmen bulled through the crowd, and elderly couples took their time. There weren't many students, since it was the middle of term. None of the men Morse saw looked like a London copper, even a specialist. 

"Excuse me. Are you from Cowley police station?"

The voice took him by surprise, over his shoulder. He whirled around. The man was much older than he'd expected, late sixties at best, tall and forbidding with grey hair and a lined face, walking with a silver-topped cane.

"DCI Nightingale?" he said.

The man gave a nod, and Morse introduced himself and took Nightingale's briefcase. "I have the car waiting," he said, and matched Nightingale's pace through the busy station. 

Just before the door, Nightingale stopped. "Excuse me one minute," he said, and ducked into the gents. Morse looked after him, then at the briefcase he was holding. He leaned back against the wall, and popped it open. 

The first thing he saw was a copy of the Mason Gull casefile, which seemed reasonable enough. There was also a book, big and old and leather-bound. Morse picked it up carefully and frowned at it. 

_De Monstris_. On Monsters. Well, some would say Mason Gull was a monster, though Morse found that possibility unsettling. If Mason Gull was a monster, what was Morse? Mason Gull was a man. That was the problem. 

But surely there could not be many policemen, even chief inspectors, who casually read books in Latin. He opened it. There was a library stamp on the frontispiece, bearing the legend _scientia potestas est_ inside a coat of arms. And there was a subtitle, also in Latin. _On monsters, vampires and other dangerous magical beasts._

So, not a book about police work. Morse flipped through the book quickly, and saw that it was indeed entirely in Latin, not even an English introduction or appendix, and clearly well read. And was all about magical monsters. There were a few index cards marking particular pages, with notes in a scrawling hand. Inspector Nightingale's? A most unusual police officer. He slid the book and file back into the briefcase and was standing in his best regulation posture when Nightingale returned. 

He led Nightingale out to the Jaguar, and saw the Londoner give an appreciative glance at the car. "If I were a younger man, I think I'd choose a car like this one," he remarked as he sat in the back. "Beautiful machine." 

"Yes, sir," said Morse. He started the engine and took her out of the station and back through the city, slowly on the busy streets. "What exactly are you here to investigate?" he asked as they waited at a pedestrian crossing on the High.

In the rearview mirror, he could see Nightingale looking as surprised as if the car itself had started to question him. Constables drove cars, Morse recalled. They didn't ask impertinent questions of officers so senior they might as well be on the moon. He was growing used to Thursday encouraging him. But then Nightingale nodded. "Morse, did you say your name was? You're the fellow who cracked the case?"

"Yes, sir," said Morse, and then supposed a moment later that it would have been more diplomatic to credit the rest of CID. "With Inspector Thursday," he added. 

"Yes," said Nightingale. "I read your report. Excellent detective work. I'm here to rule out a possibility with your Mason Gull." 

"What possibility?" 

"Whether he's involved in the work I deal with," said Nightingale. "Unhappily, I must investigate these complex cases." He looked out the window. 

"All over the country?" Morse asked, deliberately ignoring all the signals Nightingale was giving that he should stop poking his nose in. "Just you?"

"Indeed."

"Have you been doing this for long?"

"Since the end of the war. Is that all, Constable?" Nightingale said, finally losing patience. 

"Yes, sir," said Morse, thinking. He drove the rest of the way to Cowley and put the Jaguar in its bay around the back, and opened the door for Nightingale, all without particularly concentrating on what he was doing. 

"I'd like to discuss the case briefly with your Inspector," said Nightingale, "and then go and meet Gull. If there's nothing relevant to my department, it will not take long. I believe there's a train back to Paddington at 15.15, and if possible I'd like to make that." 

"Yes, sir," said Morse again. 

Curious eyes followed them as he led Nightingale into the station. The old man took the stairs slowly, and didn't look around. Thursday's door was firmly shut, and Morse knocked before opening it. 

"Chief Inspector Nightingale here to see you, sir," he said. 

Thursday gave Nightingale a blank woodentop stare. "Afternoon, sir," he said. He waved Morse to leave, but copying the same wooden expression, Morse went to stand by the far wall. Thursday gave him the look that meant _I know I can't stop you but try not to be an idiot_. 

"Good afternoon, Inspector," Nightingale said pleasantly, as if it would be beneath him to notice Thursday's mute hostility. "I've read the case file already, so I won't need to take up much of your time. I'm here to rule out the possibility that Mason Gull is connected to my department's business in any way. I believe you've been briefed on that?"

"I'm familiar with your people and their business," Thursday said, and the woodentop expression was hardening into something colder. "I was at Tobruk."

Morse saw Nightingale flinch, just slightly. "Very well," he said. "In that case perhaps your constable could show me to the cells, and we can get on with it." 

Thursday grunted and nodded. "Carry on, Constable," he said. 

As Nightingale turned to the door, Morse spoke clearly behind him. "Conclusus flamma iactus potens scindere impello terra."

The Latin was ungrammatical gibberish to Morse's classically trained mind, but the effect was remarkable. Nightingale whirled around far more quickly than Morse would have expected from a man of his age, raising his cane in front of him like a priest holding up a cross, lips drawn back and eyes narrowed. Morse didn't move. 

Nightingale went still, and then walked slowly forwards until he was only a few inches from Morse. "Explain yourself," he said, and although his voice was quiet, there was an undercurrent of danger in it that raised hairs on Morse's neck. "You're too young to have been at Ambrose House, and you're no practitioner. Where did you learn that?"

Thursday had jumped up when Nightingale reacted, and now he came over, forcing Nightingale to step back without quite touching him. "Constable Morse," he said, "answers to me."

Nightingale ignored him. "Explain yourself," he repeated.

"I believe," said Morse, looking briefly at Thursday before focussing his attention on Nightingale, "that you are being led into a trap. I think it may be possible that Gull committed all these murders in this complicated fashion to lure you here so that he could lay a trap for you." 

From Thursday's expression, only the presence of Nightingale was preventing him from telling Morse at length what an idiot he thought he was. 

"I can handle myself," said Nightingale. "I must insist you tell me at once where you learned those spells."

Morse nodded slowly at this confirmation. "For the past two days," he said, "Mason Gull has been pacing around his cell, making specific gestures and speaking in Latin. Not intelligible Latin, strings of words like the one I just repeated. This case, sir, is very much your business, and I believe you are the intended victim."

Nightingale continued to stare at him. So did Thursday. "You think this really is DCI Nightingale's case?" said Thursday. 

"Yes, sir," said Morse. "As I understand it, he's been required to check elaborate serial killers for a number of years, and he works alone. He does ... unusual things, and uses Latin routinely. I conclude that the use of Latin is relevant."

"You looked in my briefcase, Constable," Nightingale interrupted suddenly.

"Yes," said Morse. "I did. It allowed me to confirm my suspicions. I believe that Gull was aware of your work and wished to lure you into a trap. I don't know what he's done to the cell, but I imagine something to do with fire. I think as soon as you walked in, his... magic spell ... would take effect." Even with what he had deduced, it took an effort to say the words aloud. "I don't know what connection you have with Mason Gull, but it seems plausible to me that you might have enemies." He managed to stop himself from adding that everyone who'd had any experience of working with Nightingale seemed to detest him. No sense antagonising him further. 

"I was under the impression that all my enemies were dead," Nightingale said to himself. "I accept your conjectures, Constable. I would like to take a look at every detail you have of Gull's history now. His war record, if any. His family connections. If as you say he has been warding his prison cell, he must have had considerable training." 

They all took chairs around Thursday's desk, and Morse laid out all the notes he had amassed on the cases and on Gull, and Nightingale began to look through them systematically. Morse looked too, though he doubted he would find anything even with the additional knowledge of what might be possible. _Magic_. He hadn't let himself think too hard about it since he had begun to make the connections. But it had been the only possible explanation. 

The search only took ten minutes. Nightingale suddenly said, "Ah." He was looking at a picture of the inmates of the asylum where Gull had been confined. "I think I understand." He didn't sound as though the understanding was pleasant. 

Morse looked at the photograph, and Nightingale indicated one of the pyjama-clad men. "This," he said, "is Giles Trewissick. He is--was--is one of us, but after the war, after Ettersburg, he was too badly affected to return to his old life. Many of us were. But if you recited that spell accurately, then there is no doubt that he taught Mason Gull the art. He was always fond of _flamma_."

"Are there more out there like Gull? Anyone else your Mr Trewissick taught?" Thursday looked glum now. 

"Professor Trewissick," Nightingale corrected. "He was a teacher at my school. Yes, he may have taught others. Everyone who has had contact with him will need to be checked, and I'll have to pay him a visit." 

"So that's how Gull learned magic," Morse said. "But why would he be so determined to lay a trap for you, sir?"

"It is my task," Nightingale said, "to prevent the illicit use of magic in London and the South East. Since the war magic has been fading away, but it's not entirely gone and if Gull wanted to use magic in harmful ways, I would certainly have found him out and stopped him." He paused suddenly and sat back in his chair. "I received a letter," he said, "some three years ago. A man stating that he had been trained in magic and wishing to become my apprentice for further training. I ignored it. But the name he used was Sam Gullon."

"Mason Gull," said Morse promptly. "So he knew of your existence and you rejected him." 

"I have no need for an apprentice," Nightingale said. "This is the first real case I've attended in the past four years, and I wouldn't be surprised if it were the last." 

"They pay you well, for someone who's only had one case in four years," Morse said before he could stop himself, an eye on Nightingale's hand-tailored suit. Thursday gave him a _you're going over the line_ look. But he couldn't help noticing these things. 

"The Folly funds itself," Nightingale said, his forbidding look growing more glacial. 

"So Gull has both a personal reason to dislike you and a practical reason to want you out of the way," Thursday said firmly, turning the discussion back on course with another frown at Morse. "But really, all those murders in that elaborate fashion just to get your attention?"

Nightingale grimaced. "It worked," he said. "The Folly has always investigated this kind of crime, ever since there was a case in the '20s with a werewolf... and Gull was already a killer, and his grudge against his victims was real. He's plainly a man of some intelligence, and I'm sure he would be pleased to, if you'll forgive me, kill two birds with one stone." 

It was elegant, Morse had to agree. Gull had come very close to achieving all his goals. He nodded slowly. 

"Anything else?" Thursday said after a moment's silence.

"No," said Nightingale. "I believe I understand the situation." He straightened, shot his cuffs and took a firm grip on his cane. Morse, recalling childhood fairy tales, wondered just how much of a support that cane truly was. 

Strange was waiting at the door. "You want to see Gull now, sir?"

"We'll all go down," said Thursday. "There may be trouble, so look lively there." 

Looking lively wasn't one of Strange's talents, Morse reflected, but he did his best and they all tramped down to the cells. 

Nightingale slowed as they approached, his steps becoming catlike and silent. Morse took the hint and glared at Strange when he seemed about to clomp right up. Thursday, at the rear, watched with an unreadable expression. 

"Yes," Nightingale murmured to Morse, "you are correct. I could well have missed this if I'd come in unawares." 

Morse could sense nothing, though Nightingale's obvious caution and the way he stared like a cat at things nobody else could see was making him feel uneasy. His boots felt too tight and his vest was itching. 

Nightingale raised an eyebrow at him. "You sense it?"

Morse hesitated.

"Go on, boy," said Nightingale. "I'm not getting any younger. Tell me what you sense."

"Tight boots and itchy vest," said Morse at last, feeling absurd, and was startled when Nightingale smiled.

"Precisely. Gull doesn't want the constabulary to linger here. Pay attention to that sense. It could help you in future." 

"He doesn't need any help," Thursday growled. "He's quite bad enough as it is." 

Another few steps, and Nightingale raised a hand. "Clever," he murmured. "But not quite clever enough." He made an odd ecclesiastical gesture and Morse almost expected him to say 'world without end, amen' but instead he murmured a few words of the same dog-Latin the previous spells had been in.

There was a sudden click, and the door of Gull's cell swung open. Morse tensed, and Strange reached for his baton. "That was locked!" he protested, and Thursday glared at him. Nightingale stood still, his cane poised. 

Everything happened fast, like a sword-fight. A wall of flames appeared in the corridor behind them, searingly hot but not setting light to the walls. The bars on the cell door tore off one by one, fast as an ammo belt going through a machine gun, and fired themselves at Nightingale. Morse was still gaping when Thursday dragged him to the floor. 

Craning his neck despite Thursday, Morse saw the iron bars halt in mid-air as if they'd hit something hard and invisible in the air in front of Nightingale. Another second, and the cell door crashed off its hinges, falling backwards into the cell. The doors of the two adjoining cells also shot off and followed it, and there were two more crashes. The flames went out. Nightingale took two deliberate steps into the doorway. Morse pulled free of Thursday's grip and crawled cautiously forwards until he could see into the cell. Mason Gull was underneath all three doors. As he watched, the doors juddered as if he was trying to push them off. Nightingale flicked his fingers, and the doors slammed back down again, and the table, chair and bunk formed up around him like menacing guards. Without moving, Nightingale said, "Constable. In the bottom of my briefcase there's a set of handcuffs. Please get them and place them on the prisoner."

Morse saw the briefcase left carefully at the end of the corridor. He gave Thursday a hand up, then went and found the handcuffs. They seemed oddly heavy, and he compared them quickly to his regulation ones as he carried them back. The difference was not something, he suspected, that could be measured on a scale. 

The chair shuffled aside to let Morse past, and the doors rattled again. Nightingale said, "Carry on, Constable," in a voice that almost sounded bored, and Morse took a deep breath and crouched down to locate Gull's hands. He snapped one cuff on, and the doors abruptly slid away, stacking themselves up neatly in the corridor. Gull spat at him, and Morse fastened his hands behind his back. 

"I think this interview is concluded," said Nightingale. "The prisoner Mason Gull is undoubtedly under the jurisdiction of the Folly." He stepped out of the cell and raised a hand. One of the doors jumped back into place, and the locks snicked shut. 

"The handcuffs were very heavy," Morse said.

Nightingale gave a slow nod. "Yes. He can't use magic with them on." He looked back into the cell and unexpectedly added, "They're my last pair, and the man who knew how to make them died at Ettersburg, but I doubt I'll have much call for them in the future." 

Strange was staring around. He bent over and began to pick up the iron bars littering the floor. "What _was_ that?"

"Trouble," said Thursday. "Best not to think about it. Go find the handyman and get started fixing up those doors. Unless you'd care to do the honours?" 

"I don't like to leave a place messy," Nightingale said coolly, and the two remaining doors returned to their places. The iron bars, however, stayed where Strange was collecting them. 

"What will happen to him now?" asked Morse. 

"He'll stand his trial in the usual manner," said Nightingale. "The handcuffs will prevent him from using magic. I'll add him to our register of black magicians. But as the magic is fading, I expect his abilities to fade with it." 

Thursday grunted. "And if it doesn't fade? I don't suppose you're going to be personally guarding him for the next couple of decades."

"Indeed not." Nightingale looked Thursday in the eye. "Although the death penalty has now been abolished, there remain certain exceptions that few people are aware of. Black magic of this nature is one of them."

"On your say-so?"

"Yes."

Morse watched them stare each other down, and it was Thursday who looked away first. 

"The only reason he was remaining in your cell since you arrested him is that he was waiting and laying his trap for me," Nightingale said. "He could have escaped and killed every officer in the building without the slightest difficulty. Black magicians cannot be dealt with in the normal manner."

"But your handcuffs will hold him?" Thursday asked. 

"For a year. I will check in on him regularly and assess him again at the end of the year, after he has stood trial. If as I believe, the magic has faded further by then, he will require no more security than any other highly dangerous criminal. Otherwise--I will carry out my office." 

Thursday gave a short, measured nod. 

Strange placed the last bar in the heap, and Nightingale turned away. 

As Morse led the way back up to the office, Thursday said to him, "Seems you were right. No surprises there." 

"Indeed. I owe you my thanks," said Nightingale in his turn. "I've missed having back-up, since the war." He regarded Morse thoughtfully. "The days of magic are over now, and I've no need for an apprentice. But you would have made an admirable one." 

Morse was surprised by the pang of regret he felt at that, and then felt guilty for it. He belonged here in Oxford, with Thursday. 

Thursday looked hostile again for a moment, then said, "You work alone, then?" to Nightingale, who nodded. "I got my start in London, and we had dealings with your... department," Thursday went on. "It seemed fairly large." 

"It was, before the war."

"And now it's just you," said Morse before he could stop himself. "What happened to the rest of them?"

"Is there anything else?" asked Nightingale, stepping back and pointedly not answering. "I must be getting back."

"I think we're done," said Thursday. "You'll forgive me if I hope we don't have any more of these strange cases here." He paused, seeming to weigh his words, before adding, "But if we do, I'll loan you Morse for the duration." 

Nightingale inclined his head. 

"But not as an apprentice," Thursday added. "If you do ever decide you want an apprentice, you should look for someone who's not so much like you. It works out much better that way." 

Morse gave Thursday a sharp look, and a warier one at Nightingale. 

"I'll bear it in mind," said Nightingale, with a slight warming of his tone. "Thank you for your assistance, Constable, Inspector."

* * *

_BOING._

The tennis ball ricocheted off Peter's helmet and spun out of the impromptu court towards Nightingale, who stopped it with a raised hand. "Point and game to Lesley, I believe," he said. 

"How many rounds do you owe me now?" crowed Lesley. "I hope you've been saving your pennies." 

"Sir, I think you should give us some more Latin translations to do tonight. We'll be too busy to go to the pub until after payday." 

Lesley tried to bounce the tennis ball off Peter's helmet again, and Nightingale held out his hand. The ball smacked into his palm. He tossed it into the air and caught it, enjoying the youthful ease of movement in his shoulder and wrist. When the arthritis had healed, he had really begun to believe he could be aging backwards, and even a good decade or more after it had finally gone, he still took pleasure in the freedom of movement in his joints. 

"Gentlemen should pay their debts quickly," he informed Peter, who removed his helmet and took Lesley's for her. "You're both free this evening."

"Unless someone gets magically murdered," Lesley suggested with a twist of her lips that Nightingale recognised as a grin. "You might still get out of it."

Molly set down a tray of biscuits and cold drinks on a table a little way across the atrium, safely away from flying tennis balls, and Nightingale smiled at her. "Thank you, Molly." 

She gave a little tilt of her head that meant she was pleased, and glided away as silently as she had come. Lesley elbowed Peter as they came to join him, and he jostled her in return. Nightingale was growing accustomed to these modern manners, where a young man could roughhouse with a young woman without being a boor, but he still wasn't entirely sure of all the rules. He pulled out a chair for Lesley anyway. Peter's manners were good according to his modern ethos, but Nightingale preferred to stick to what he knew when he could. It was growing harder and harder now that the modern world had arrived in the Folly.

"Your _tracto_ is still poorly formed," he told Lesley as she poured herself a glass of orange squash. "You're not allowing enough time for the complete _forma_ before creating the next one, and it's leading to distortions in the spell." He continued with a critique of Peter's spellwork, which was even more slapdash in some places, though more fluent, while Peter and Lesley sipped squash and ate biscuits and pretended to ignore him. At first he'd been dismayed by this attitude, but after weeks of it with Peter he was confident that despite it they would both be working hard to remedy the problems next time. And introduce new problems in their place, but that was the way of it with apprentices. 

His apprentices. Bouncing around the Folly all day, asking questions he'd never dreamed of, bringing youthful thought and energy to everything they did, upsetting his routines and patterns of life with novelty and innovation. They'd only been here the blink of an eye, but he could scarcely imagine life in the Folly without them.


End file.
